


A Musketeers Advent

by PericulaLudus



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Baby Musketeers, Childhood, Family, Fluff, Gen, Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:18:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: Collection of four short Christmas stories from the musketeers' childhood. Posting one story every Sunday leading up to Christmas.





	1. Paris, 1604

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Advent, everyone! Yes, I'm still around though I haven't been on here for months. Without boring you rigid, I've been very busy between family issues, a busy term teaching, hopefully finishing up my PhD before Christmas, and tackling global poverty (genuinely, it's the area I work in). As a little Christmas present to the Musketeers fandom that has been so wonderful and welcoming to me over the past year, I will post four little Christmas stories about the musketeers as children, lighting a little fanfic candle every Sunday leading up to Christmas. Hope you enjoy!

“Are you cold, _maman_?” Porthos whispered, tugging at his mother’s skirts.

She smiled down at him, but couldn’t suppress a shiver. “A little,” she admitted.

“It’s alright,” Porthos said and held out his arms. “I’ll warm you.”

She picked him up and settled him onto her hip. He slung his arms around her neck and giggled as she wrapped them both in her woollen shawl. She pressed a soft kiss onto his curly hair.

“You aren’t cold?” she asked.

“I’m never cold,” he said, grinning.

“I’m so glad,” his mother answered. “Are you bored?”

Porthos shook his head. True, he didn’t understand what the priests said. They spoke God’s language and that was different from what normal people spoke. His _maman_ had explained that to him. It sounded nice. Porthos supposed that was because it was God’s language and people only said nice things in God’s language.

“The singing is pretty,” he said. He craned his neck, trying to see above the heads of the crowd. There were a lot of people at church that day because they were celebrating the day Jesus was born. That was very important. The people in front of them shifted slightly and he was finally able to take it all in.

“Ooh,” Porthos made, his eyes going wide.

“Shh, remember we are guests here, don’t be loud.”

“Sorry,” Porthos whispered. “But look! There are pictures, and they have a real cloth on the big table, and everything is gold, and, _maman,_ it’s beautiful!”

His mother chuckled softly. “You have expensive tastes, my little prince.”

“But it’s _beautiful,”_ Porthos repeated.

“So are you, little one,” his mother said and rubbed their noses together.

Porthos smiled and looked at her. She was really beautiful as well.

“When I’m big I’ll be really good and then we can live in a big house all of our own and we can have pretty pictures and a cloth and we can have candles that always burn and a big fire so it’s always warm and never dark...”

She smiled at him like she didn’t believe him. Porthos furrowed his brow.

“When I’m big, I’ll make sure you have everything,” he confirmed.

She smiled, but her eyes looked a little bit sad.

“You just be healthy and happy, Porthos,” she said. “That’s all I need from you.”

He couldn’t understand why she was sad when they were in a beautiful church and it was the day when Jesus was born and there was pretty singing. It was a good day.

“I’m always happy,” he said. “And I’m not like the little babies who die. I’m a big boy and I’m strong.”

“My little lion,” she said and tightened her grip on his body.

Porthos knew what a lion was. He had never seen one, but his _maman_ had told him. It looked a little like a cat, but it was as big as a horse. It had a mouth so big it could swallow a man without chewing. Porthos really wanted to see a lion.

He snuggled against his mother, resting his head on her shoulder and yawning. He had not slept much earlier because he had been so excited about going to church at night.

“When I’m a big lion, you don’t have to be afraid any more,” he said. “When I’m big, I’ll be the biggest, strongest lion in Paris.”

He roared a little to underline his words, but only very softly because he didn’t want to be rude.

“There are a lot of big, strong lions in the world,” his mother said. “But not many good ones. I just want you to be a good one.”

Porthos nodded, head still pressed against her shoulder.

“Do you remember the story about Daniel and the lions?”

Of course Porthos remembered it. His mother knew many stories, but that was one of his favourites. There were a lot of lions in that story.

“They put Daniel in the pit with the lions because the bad people thought that the lions would eat him,” his mother continued. “But the lions listened to God and didn’t eat Daniel.”

“’Cause Daniel was a good man,” Porthos said.

“That’s right,” his mother said. “And the lions were good lions.”

She hugged him tighter and brushed a hand through his hair.

“When you’re a lion, always be a good lion who listens to God. And when you meet someone as good as Daniel, you take care of them. You always take care of them.”

“I take care of you, _maman_.”

“Yes, you do,” she said and pressed a kiss to his hair. “And you’d take care of Daniel, too.”

Porthos thought about that for a moment.

“Daniel must be cold in that pit with the lions,” he said. “I’d keep him warm.”

He felt her chest shudder with what he assumed was a silent laugh. He liked it when his mother laughed.

“You’ll make a fine lion one day, little prince.”

“Yes, _maman_ ,” Porthos whispered.

He watched the flickering light of the many, many candles for a little longer, enjoying the adventure of being at church in the middle of the night. Eventually, he let his mother’s warmth and the gentle murmur of voices lull him to sleep. He hoped that Jesus didn’t mind. It really was very late for a birthday party.

That night, Porthos dreamt he wasn’t a scrawny boy from the Court of Miracles, but a mighty lion who needn’t be afraid of anyone. And when he saw a good man, he took care of him. He made sure the good man was warm and that no bad lions could ever reach him.


	2. Paris, 1606

“René!”

He wheeled around when he heard Pauline call his name, only to be greeted by a handful of snow in the face, while more of the icy cold stuff was shoved down his neck. René sputtered indignantly, wiping his eyes as his friend ran away, giggling madly.

The little vixen. He totally should have seen _that_ coming.

Cold water ran down his back, making René shiver. The day was sunny, but bitterly cold. The younger children had been told to stay inside, but he and Pauline were old enough to go out to play in the snow. It was, after all, the first snow of the season. With Christmas approaching, the timing could not have been more perfect.

“I’m going to get you,” he shouted and ran after Pauline.

They had been watching the ice on the Seine from one of the bridges, but were soon chasing each other through the streets. Scooping snow from window ledges and carriages as he ran, René kept up a constant barrage of snowballs, most of which hit their target. While Pauline was admittedly faster, René had the much better aim. He tried his best to dodge her artillery, but couldn’t entirely escape her retaliation either.

The streets were heaving with housewives and domestic staff shopping for ingredients for the Christmas feasts on top of the usual mass of people going about their daily business, so they had to nimbly weave between bodies and around market stalls.

Eventually, they left the business of the road to take a shortcut across the cemetery. The headstones provided plenty of snow at a convenient height to help them make more ammunition. They spent some minutes peppering each other with snowballs, laughing and shouting at each other. Only the appearance of a disgruntled priest put an end to their shenanigans. They both knew better than to antagonise a priest. René suspected he’d spend the rest of his life on his knees, praying for absolution, if his mother should ever get wind of any such misbehaviour. Thinking about it, it was probably better not to mention their excursion to the cemetery at all.

Finally, they reached their street and sprinted through the gate into the vast courtyard of their home. It was still fairly early so their mothers shouldn’t be too busy. If they were lucky, someone might be in the kitchen and could be talked into making them cups of hot milk and honey. It really was terribly cold. René shivered again as he remembered the snow Pauline had stuffed down the back of his shirt.

That really had to be punished more severely.

While Pauline collected some pieces of wood from their storage, René gathered more snow and formed a dozen or more snowballs. He squeezed them tightly to make sure they were particularly hard and small. When he had a tidy pile in front of him, he crouched down behind an empty barrel and waited for a clear shot on target. Pauline wouldn’t get off that lightly.

His first snowball hit her square in the face. The logs she was carrying clattered to the ground as Pauline complained loudly about René’s merciless assault.

His second snowball found his target a heartbeat later.

By the time he fired off his third, Pauline ducked just in time for it to sail far over her head and towards the gate where at that very moment two ladies in expensive looking coats appeared. René’s snowball hit one of them in the chest.

 _Pardieu._ If his mother ever got wind of _that_ , she’d have his head and he’d probably never be allowed outside ever again. The latter seemed significantly worse to René.

“ _Mesdames,”_ he cried, stepping away from his hiding place. “I offer you my sincerest apologies.”

He walked towards them. The two, one young and pretty, the other old enough to have some greying hair poke out from underneath her head scarf, looked understandably flustered. Aramis bowed low and with a flourish.

“I beg your pardon, _mesdames,_ my thoughtless behaviour really is inexcusable,” René said. “Your sudden appearance dazzled me.”

He gave them his most winning smile and what his mother called his doe eyes. Indeed, the pretty one smiled back at him and needlessly brushed off her companion’s overcoat.

“Apology accepted, my boy,” she said. “I recognise that we call on you unexpectedly.”

René didn’t quite know what to make of that, so he decided to simply bow again. Pauline appeared at his side now, eyeing the two ladies curiously.

“How may I be of assistance, _mesdames?”_ he asked, still addressing both, which seemed the polite thing to do.

“We would like to speak to—“ The older woman interrupted herself with an affected cough.

“To your mother,” the pretty one added. “Might your mother be home?”

René smiled at her again. She really was beautiful, but he knew how to handle this. Both his mother and Madame Claude had told him multiple times that no women were ever to be allowed inside the house. More than likely they were wives of their clients, and really, nobody needed that sort of commotion.

“I’m awfully sorry,” he replied smoothly. “But _maman_ is unable to receive visitors at the moment.”

“We would really only be a moment,” the pretty one told him. René had no idea why her husband would come here. Certainly he had everything a man could desire in his marital bed.

“We are members of the society of Saint-Germain-des-Prés,” the old one added in an officious tone. “Come to bring alms to those in need.”

René immediately made to protest. Their mothers all earned a comfortable living and Madame Claude was a kind and generous woman. They were most definitely not in need of alms of any kind. But then the women held out baskets and the younger one brushed aside the white linen covering hers to reveal a fat, round, and utterly delicious smelling king cake. René’s mouth started to water immediately and at his side Pauline was craning her neck to get a good view of the delicacy.

“Merely a token of our affection and goodwill towards our neighbours during this festive season,” the younger woman said and held out her basket.

René quickly snatched it out of her hands before she could retract her offer. He thanked her profusely.

“May the Lord bless you eternally for your generosity,” he finished eventually.

He bowed again and Pauline followed suit and curtseyed clumsily.

“Oh you poor wretched waifs,” the older woman said, forcing her basket into Pauline’s hands.

Now that they certainly weren’t, but René wasn’t quite sure how to refute her claim without talking himself out of that lovely sweet cake.

“My mother is a good, god-fearing woman,” he said. “We go to church every Sunday.”

He hoped his tone was suitably respectful. Even if he didn’t respect the woman very much, he certainly had a lot of respect for her cake.

“Oh sweet child,” the woman exclaimed. “Have you never known your father?”

“The King’s armies keep many men far from home and family as they tirelessly defend France from her enemies,” René said. He was only stating the obvious and not answering her question, but both women sighed deeply and nodded their heads. Since his reply seemed to please them, he decided to push things a bit further.

“While my earthly father may not be with us, I pray daily to my Father in Heaven that he may show me mercy and guide his angels towards me like he did with you, _mesdames.”_

The older woman actually dabbed at her eyes with a crisp white handkerchief at that. Many more niceties were exchanged, quite a few too many by René’s standards. He was rather desperate to get inside and tuck into these cakes. When they did finally manage to say their farewells and escape into the house, it was only after a series of wet kisses to their cheeks, but René concluded that the sweet cake was worth the sacrifice.


	3. La Fère, 1608

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, everyone, I'm glad you are enjoying these little childhood tales. I'm in what will hopefully be the last ten days of five years of PhD writing and life is stressful to say the least. So it's especially wonderful to read your kind comments and know that at least some of my writing is bringing people joy. A little note to clarify my timelines: Porthos is about 4, Aramis 8, Athos 12, and d'Artagnan 4 in these little stories.

"My brother is an excellent swordsman," Thomas said.

Olivier knew that Thomas was trying to ensure he was included in the conversation, but he'd rather he didn't. He had been perfectly content to sit quietly and stare at his plate, hoping he'd be forgotten entirely. He should be so lucky.

"Oh is he now?" one of the girls asked. "My dear de la Fère, I had no idea. You must regale us with tales of your prowess with the blade."

Olivier balled his fists under the table and gulped down the lump of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. If he could make it through dinner with their guests, he might be able to excuse himself for an hour before the midnight mass, an hour of blessed silence.

"Yes, Olivier, tell us about your fencing lessons," Thomas encouraged.

They would laugh; Olivier knew they would. He might not be too bad with a sword in his hand, but he wasn't any good... with words or with girls. Especially not when he could feel the eyes of the comte and the comtesse on him, could feel the weight of their expectations rest on his shoulders.

"Olivier," Thomas prompted.

Olivier squeezed his eyes shut for a mere fraction of a moment. He could do this; he could speak about swords, even in front of all these people. He had to. He squared his shoulders and turned abruptly towards his brother and the girls.

Too abruptly.

His arm collided with that of the parlour maid who had apparently been about to refill his glass. Dark red wine sloshed from the decanter, spilling over her dress and the crisp white tablecloth. For a moment, Olivier stared at the drops soaking into the linen spreading like pools of dark blood. Then he looked up, his eyes meeting those of the horrified maid. She looked like she was about to burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," Olivier said into the sudden silence that had fallen around them.

There were several gasps and some hushed whispers as the maid was dragged away by the butler and some of the other women moved in to mop up the worst of the spillage. Olivier's eyes were drawn towards his parents. His mother kept herself very upright, face pinched as she tried to keep the evident disgust in her eyes under control. His father's anger was obvious, a thick vein pulsing on his forehead. Olivier knew he deserved every word of the tirade that was sure to follow for disrupting such an important Christmas dinner.

When he finally spoke, the comte's voice was icy.

"You. Out," he said, pointing at Olivier who promptly rose and bowed towards each of the diners, desperately hoping that he remembered the correct order in which to address them. He could not afford to make even more of a spectacle of himself after shaming his family like this. He was enough of an embarrassment already without insulting any of their guests directly.

Olivier found himself outside in the corridor without really knowing how he had gotten there. The vast entrance hall lay abandoned, blessedly silent for once. Of course, all the servants were working to prepare or to serve the Christmas dinner. Or to clean up after him.

The comte stepped out of the dining room a little while later, undoubtedly after an attempt to calm the waves that his son's despicable behaviour was bound to have caused.

Olivier resisted the urge to duck as his father towered over him, his rage all the more palpable now that they were alone. The comte stared down at him, taking in every inch of him and evidently finding him lacking. Olivier stood and waited for the inevitable shouting, almost found himself wishing for it to start. Instead the comte continued to glare at him.

"You disgust me."

The comte took a step back and waved his hand at Olivier as if he were a particularly bothersome insect.

"My apologies, _monsieur—_ "

"Enough!" his father cut him off sharply. "Spare me your _apologies._ No son of mine should be caught apologising to a serving wench."

 _Marguerite._ Her name was Marguerite. The thought came into his head unbidden as the silence between them lingered. He shouldn't know her name, shouldn't care. _Typical._ Mingling with commoners, unaware of his position, sullying his family name. The comte did not even have to say the words. Olivier knew.

"You ruined your chances with Marie-Hyacinthe, obviously," the comte said. "A pity. Her father was willing to endow her with considerable lands, despite your disfigurement."

His disfigurement. His father's words kept coming back to Olivier, repeating endlessly in his mind as he lay on the bed after having been sent to his room. His hand went involuntarily to the thin scar that stretched from his upper lip to his nose. He had differing accounts of his early childhood. According to his mother, he had been a hideous, hare-lipped monster. According to his father, he needed to be thankful they had not left him to die, but taken him in as a son despite his deformity. According to his nurse, however, he had been a beautiful baby with a charming smile.

He was alone in the dark, listening to the sounds of conversation and merriment from the dining room and later the salon. He heard Thomas play the harpsichord. At least his parents had one son who did not disappoint them. Nobody came to light a lamp or to help him undress, not even when Olivier rang for his valet. Undoubtedly the staff had been instructed to stay away.

It was late when a quiet knock at the door roused Olivier.

"Come in," he called, but received no answer.

He padded across the room and opened the door, not entirely sure whom to expect.

Nobody was to be seen. The corridor lay silent and abandoned. Olivier was careful not to step foot outside his room, knowing that his father would be informed of any such rebellion and his punishment would be severe, but he stood there for a while, looking this way and that. Nobody.

It was only when he made to close the door that he noticed the little white parcel sitting next to his feet. He looked left and right once more, but still couldn't spot a single soul. Quickly, he bent down, picked up the parcel, and scurried back into his room. Once the door closed behind him, Olivier carefully unwrapped the starched white serviette to reveal a piece of cake. He stared at it for a long moment. Cake? For him? Who would do that?

He touched the cake, as if to reassure himself that it was real, then licked the sugar off his fingertip. It was delicious. He sat the cake down onto his desk, smoothed the serviette, and made sure he sat down properly before he started to nibble at the sweet treat some unknown kind soul had granted him.


	4. Lupiac, Gascony, 1610

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the fourth Sunday of Advent, of course, here's a childhood story about our fourth musketeer. One that I hope will make you smile. While this will definitely be the last you read of me before Christmas, I'm really looking forward to returning to more regular fanfic writing after some real life things (namely the submission of a 300 page PhD) have been sorted out. So if you would like to see more of my writing, please head on over to "Praise and Glory", which will become my extensive pre-series musketeers tale. Plenty of learning and fighting, h&c and friendship to come, as ever with a good dose of historical accuracy thrown in. But for now, please enjoy this little tale. Merry Christmas, readers!

“Belle is the best horse in the world,” Charles said. He crossed his arms and nodded his head solemnly, looking up at his father. It was a rather monumental statement after all.

His father chuckled and settled him more comfortably on his knee.

“What about Bayard?” he asked.

Charles screwed up his face, thinking about that long and hard.

“He’s a good horse,” he finally conceded. “But Belle is my favourite horse.”

With that important question settled, he snuggled into his father’s arms, quite content to stay there until bedtime. That resolve lasted for all of five heartbeats before he started to squirm again.

His father held him tight.

“Do you know the story of Bayard?” he asked.

Charles looked up at him. “Bayard is a good horse and he lives in a nice stable with his friend Belle and he works on our farm and sometimes I feed him apples. Can I feed him an apple now, Papa? And Belle, too? Please, Papa! Belle is really hungry, her tummy is all rumbly.”

His father hummed quietly. “That’s what Bayard does now, that’s true. But there’s a story about a horse called Bayard from a long, long time ago.”

“When Mamie Julienne was a little girl?”

His father smiled. “A long, long time before Mamie Julienne was even born. This story is from the time when Charlemagne was the king.”

“He was a really good king. He won all the battles,” Charles said. He swished his right hand through the air like he was fighting an invisible foe. He should really go and get his sword. It was only made of wood, but his papa said that when he was big, he could have a real sword. Charles really hoped he’d be big soon so he could have a real sword.

“That’s the one,” his father said. “When Charlemagne was king, there was a knight called Renaud, the son of Aymon.”

“Did he win a lot of fights?”

“He won a lot of fights. He was a very good knight. He was so good that the king—“

“That’s Charlemagne, he’s called Charles, just like me,” Charles said.

“Yes, that’s right, Charlemagne learned of Renaud’s many victories and he was very proud of him.”

“Like you’re proud of me?”

“Just like that. Charlemagne was very proud of Renaud and he gave him permission to build a castle to protect his land and that’s the big castle that we have in Montauban today. That was Renaud who built that castle, and since we know that, we know that the story about Renaud’s horse must be true as well,” his father said with a smile.

“Tell me more about his horse!” Charles said impatiently.

“His horse was given to him by the king.”

“Charlemagne.”

“He gave him the horse because Renaud was such a good knight. Bayard was a bay horse—“

“That’s when the body is brown and the tail is black,” Charles interrupted, proud to show how much he knew about horses.

“That’s right, just like our Bayard. But Bayard was not a normal horse. He had a touch of magic about him.”

“That’s silly. A horse can’t do magic.”

“Just wait and let me tell you about his magic,” his father said, tapping Charles on the nose with a finger. Charles giggled.

“Renaud was the oldest of four brothers. All of them were really good fighters and they fought against all the enemies of the king. They fought very bravely and they won many victories together, but one day there were many, many enemies against them and only the four brothers were still fighting. Their enemies were everywhere and the horses of Renaud’s brothers were killed.”

Charles gasped, his eyes wide. He snuggled deeper into his father’s arms.

“Renaud’s brothers must be really sad that their horses died,” he said.

“Yes,” his father confirmed. “They were very sad and they were very afraid because there were so many enemies. They wanted to ride away, but there were four of them and only one horse between them.”

“And their horse is called Bayard like our horse.”

“So Renaud rode Bayard and suddenly something magical happened...”

Charles dug a finger between his father’s ribs. “Tell me what happened!”

“But I thought magic was silly?”

“Tell me!”

“As Renaud rode on Bayard, suddenly he felt the horse shift underneath him. Bayard whinnied once and he stretched and suddenly he was long enough for two knights to ride him all at once. The second brother jumped onto Bayard and now two of them could ride away. And then Bayard whinnied again and he stretched and suddenly he was long enough for three knights, so the third brother could ride away as well.”

Charles eyes went wide as he listened to his father’s tale.

“He needs to do it again for the other brother,” he said. “They can’t leave the other brother!”

“And wouldn’t you know it... just as their enemies were closing in all around them with their shiny swords and their long pikes, Bayard whinnied one last time and he stretched and suddenly he was long enough for the last brother to ride him as well,” his father said.

“So they can all ride away now!”

“Yes, indeed,” his father confirmed. “And Bayard ran and ran and he ran really fast, carrying all four brothers. But their enemies had fast horses as well and the brothers couldn’t get away from them. Then they came to the side of a cliff. There was a narrow valley far below, only a few paces wide, but very, very deep. It was too wide for any horse to jump, but Bayard was no normal horse.”

“He can jump across!”

“Oh, but remember he was carrying four knights with all of their armour and all of their weapons. It was no easy task. But Bayard ran and ran and then he jumped...”

Charles held his breath. He really hoped that Bayard would make it across the valley.

“It was a very long jump,” his father said. “But Bayard flew like an eagle, gliding in the air, and only a heartbeat or two later, he landed on the ground on the other side of the valley. And none of the enemies could get to Renaud and his brothers.”

“Did the enemies fall down the cliff?”

“No, but they looked very silly, standing there and looking at Bayard and the brothers.”

Charles giggled. “They are silly enemies.”

“And Bayard was a really good horse. The brothers rode him for many, many years and he always helped them when they were in danger. And when he couldn’t stay with Renaud and his brothers any more, Bayard disappeared into the forest.”

“What happened?”

“Nobody knows... but sometimes, somebody finds a bay horse and the horse is called Bayard and there’s a little touch of magic about him.”

Charles thought about that.

“Like our Bayard?”

“Well, he’s a bay horse...” his father said slowly.

“Can we look?”

“Look at what?”

“Can we look if Bayard has magic?”

“Of course.”

Hand in hand they walked across the courtyard and into the stable. Charles picked out two particularly nice apples. He fed one to Belle. She was still his favourite horse in the whole world after all. But then he stepped across to where Bayard stood. He held out the apple for him and as the big bay horse munched on it, Charles looked at him critically.

He wasn’t sure.

He gently stroked the soft muzzle and laughed when Bayard snorted at him. He looked up and up and up, over the silky black mane, all the way up to Bayard’s back. He was really pretty long.

“Papa,” Charles said and tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Can I sit on him?”

“Of course.”

In the blink of an eye, his father had hoisted him up onto Bayard’s back. Charles sat there, his legs stretched wide across the heavy draught horse. After a moment, he leaned back and finally lay down on his back. Bayard was a very long horse.

“Papa,” Charles whispered. “I think he’s a little bit magic.”


End file.
